


“Tʜᴇ sᴜɴ ɪsɴ’ᴛ ʀɪsɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏᴛɪᴍᴇ sᴏᴏɴ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.”

by jcwrites



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: (all things considered...), Alternate Ending, Angst, Happy Ending, Jay Gatsby Lives, M/M, Nick's Point of View, POV First Person, They don't get together... but I'm setting it up Okay, brief description of gunshot wound, minor alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 16:18:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18479842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcwrites/pseuds/jcwrites
Summary: 'I found myself out on the docks again. Sat on the same stair that I sat on the night I became aware of Gatsby’s extraordinary gift for hope, I rested against the cold pole....  I felt the ghost of the smile that I gave at his devoted reverence; it tried to possess me, but I was not allowing....  In some way, shape, or form, whether it was how Gatsby felt for Daisy or how hewishedhe felt, I, too, harboured a romantic attraction for the unreachable.'Jay survives George Wilson's bullet, but Nick doesn't know. He is left to wait in his own uncomfortable silence.





	“Tʜᴇ sᴜɴ ɪsɴ’ᴛ ʀɪsɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏᴛɪᴍᴇ sᴏᴏɴ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.”

**Author's Note:**

> so! I've been working on this ... uh... _little_ thing for a while between my original stuff and college work, and i'm so incredibly proud of it!
> 
> i tried to stick to the same voice as the book as much as possible... i hope it shows!
> 
> i was inspired to write this by this text post: http://memeasaurus-promptus.tumblr.com/post/176758514344/late-night-wanderings-sentence-starters
> 
> enjoy!

New York ran silent after they were all convinced of Jay Gatsby’s apparent passing. 

That is what I had believed, at least. The only time I cared to leave my home was to work and shop for food when it was coming to its very end. What other motivations did I have? 

I was waiting foolishly on my wits end, waiting for my phone to ring with a call from Gatsby. Though I didn’t want to count entirely on Wolfsheim’s shady colleagues, it was one of them who answered one of my phone calls and told me that Gatsby had been taken, hastily, to a hospital. Granted, the man had said no more than that but, it was as if while Gatsby was recuperating and while his body was struggling to keep itself, part of his rosy optimism had transferred to me. 

Preserving this rosy optimism has been an almost-vertical uphill battle. At the beginning of the first week of Gatsby’s absence, I telephoned Daisy against my will and might. It was my intention to attempt to convince Daisy to see Gatsby in whichever hospital he was taken to, to find her way there somehow, in chance that it would better him or cause him closure before it was too late. 

This was the first instance of the shining wishfulness that I admired carrying me along, leading me to the dream of carrying out my intentions. That selfish part of me, that part of us all that aches to tell the perpetrator of injustice what is what, was overcome.

My telephone call was greeted, expectedly, by Tom and Daisy’s butler who spoke in his fanciful French accent. I waited on the telephone for a while before I was responded to but, even then, the reply was meaningless. The two, along with their child who knew no better than their example, had ‘gone away’ with an unexpected return date. However, I  _ heard  _ the shuffling in the background, the accidental knocks of suitcases and whispers. Who else would need such frantic luggage handling if Daisy and Tom had already departed?

“ _ Please _ .” Uncomfortably, I had begged. I was baring more and more to a careless lot when I already felt like I was coming close to having nothing left. My hand was tight on the telephone handle. I had tried bargaining. I had tried mentioning her emotions. Anything that could cause her to steer off her path. I knew she was within range of hearing my tinny voice.

It had appeared, however, that, for a rare moment in her indecisive life, Daisy had made up her mind.

Their butler placed the telephone down, cutting me off during another plea. I called more times, even after my fingertips were numbed by dialling the repetitive numbers. Eventually, my calls reached their residence no more. Perhaps  _ that  _ had finally been packed up, ready to be taken wherever the couple were fleeing off to.

This first week was also my first exposure to what could have become insomnia and survivors guilt. Each night, I wandered out across the boards of Gatsby’s dock and, each time, I expected him to be there. Perhaps not so much expected as opposed to yearned for. Having woken up from measly rest, I would venture out to the structure and envision a parallel reality where Gatsby was stood in front of me, hands in his pockets, like nothing - or no-one - had wronged him. He would turn to me and smile that smile and invite me to stay with him, just like he had invited to me have a swim with him in his pool.

In that instance, I would undoubtedly accept his offer; his face would not fall with disappointment, and he would be alright. He would not be the incredibly ill unreachable, and I would not be the one breaking into my small alcohol collection just to fall to sleep at night.

 

&

 

Gradually, my trouble with sleep took more of a toll as the days trudged on. While work had its bores with or without outside influence, the sleep I was not getting during those painfully long nights caught up with my body while I was attempting to earn my keep.

I suppose that I was efficient enough at my job to continue doing what I always had done since taking it up, but I knew that my performance was only  _ just  _ breaching satisfactory. I was fully aware that my voice would slowly stutter and, occasionally, I would miss the words of the person on the other end of the line. I was painfully aware of each of my shortcomings; almost as soon as I made a mistake, I latched onto the uncomfortable possibility of falling short and my efforts doubled on both trying to do better and spiralling downwards.

My telephone rang one day and I made no rush to answer it as I stood on my back porch. I had another drink in my hand, my second since I had woken up not even an hour ago. I listened to the shrill ring with disdain; I could count, on one hand, those who could possibly have any interest to call on me. One of those persons would be Daisy herself, and I pondered bitterly if her call, at this point, deserved to be answered. Should  _ she  _ should be allowed release when her carelessness has lead to a tragedy at the very least?

Then, though, perhaps as an answer to my question, I felt that optimism bleed through me. Against my own will, I felt Gatsby hoping for a brighter tomorrow. I realised that my circumstantial cynicism was getting the better of me and the call could just as well be him too.

I was more quick in my approach to the telephone after that realisation. “Hello?” My voice was gravelly, unwell. I cleared it.

“Hello, Nick.”

The voice didn’t belong to Gatsby, nor Daisy; the voice was Jordan Baker’s, awaiting a response on the other end.

This was something I didn’t expect.

I have wanted to scream and shout endlessly these past few days. I have wanted to rant and rave, to let the world know just how _ unfair  _ it was. I wanted to say everything, but -

“Nick?” Jordan spoke, inflection at the end of my name. 

I wanted to say everything, but in that moment, words escaped me and I was too weak to speak to somebody who  _ did _ deserve an answer, no matter how little, for my sudden silence and avoiding of interaction.

After a few seconds, she muttered something about me throwing her over and roughly put the phone down.

Morose, I took another drink of the alcohol.

 

&

 

I found myself out on the docks again.

I was sat on the same stair that I sat on the night I became aware of Gatsby’s extraordinary gift for hope and rested against the cold pole. I remembered nodding slowly along to Gatsby’s talking, his hopelessly romantic speeches about Daisy. I felt the ghost of the smile that I gave at his devoted reverence; it tried to possess me, but I was not allowing.

Looking back on it now, I felt a sense of injustice which, at the time, I suppressed due to the unidentifiable nature of it. I was more than happy to listen to Gatsby’s voice, but to feel the meaning of his words collided with me in some disturbing way. It was a strange sensation, to want to hear what he had to say - his words always found a way to thrill me, subtle or prevalent, truthful or fabricated, clear or disordered - but feel almost rejected when his words were about another. I felt, on both occasions, selfish. The situation was not about me, but still…

This tumultuous - and confusing - series of thoughts that has followed me this past summer brought me to a inward, mind-changing realisation.

In some way, shape, or form, whether it was how Gatsby felt for Daisy or how he  _ wished  _ he felt, I, too, harboured a romantic attraction for the unreachable.

From then on I hung closer to my telephone, waiting for a shrill ring. I waited for a sign, for anything, that could tell me that Gatsby was returning soon. No signs made themselves apparent to me and my hope was slowly draining. With that, I was scared (and reluctant) to admit that perhaps Gatsby’s own hope was waning along with it.

I drank heavier than before and woke up with a ferocious headache and nausea. My eyes detested any light which fell on me and, as time went on, nothing felt more appealing than the thought of simply falling off the edge of existence. 

What kept me hanging on was that extraordinary gift for hope.

 

&

 

On the day breaching the second week, I watched cars arrive at Gatsby’s mansion. These cars were different to the tooting, honking, horns-a-blaring ones that swerved into his drive every once a fortnight to enjoy the frivolities of his parties, to take everything he served for granted.

These ones were more discreet; nobody was shouting, and no horns were breaking the silence of West Egg. There still, though, seemed to be a disproportionate amount given the circumstances; while I knew Gatsby had replaced his staff with Wolfsheim’s associates, on my visits to his house thereafter I knew that there were not as many servants as there were cars I saw pouring in.

It was the question of what group of people could impose themselves in a hospitalised man’s manor that drew me over in the cold and rain. In retrospect, I believe it was my need to protect Gatsby’s endeavours, to be the one to keep hold of his own while he could not.

By the time I reached Gatsby’s front door, my hair was plastered to my face and I swept it back with my hand; I hadn’t cared to use my umbrella and instead wrapped my coat around myself. 

Nobody stood in the entry hall but, as I ventured further into the house, I saw faces that I could unequivocally swear I hadn’t seen before; some saw me staring, and shadily turned back to what they assumed as their ‘business’ in Gatsby’s home. 

I climbed the stairs, searching for a shred of a clue to what the hell was going on. Eventually, upon finding no faces that were too familiar to me, I approached the next man I saw.

“What  _ is  _ all of this?” I asked impatiently, hand almost flinging itself into a gesture. 

The unnamed man turned to me part way, looking at  _ me  _ as if  _ I _ had no business to be here. My mind protested at the idiocy. “What’s it to you?”

_ What’s it to  _ me _? _ My tongue was ready to list off all of the injustices that gave me the sole right to stand in Gatsby’s house while these strangers simply mulled around like asses and were poking and prodding at all of his belongings like dirty scavengers.

“I’m his neighbour,” I told the man, “and his friend.”  _ His only friend _ , I thought. “Who are you? Who are  _ any _ of you?”

I was eyed up and down incredulously like I did not belong, like I was not sane. That made my insides twist and turn and I was inwardly angry beyond belief.

“Friends of Wolfsheim, you can say.” He turned to me fully, and I could see that he was holding an expensive piece of decor in his hands. He had been examining it, sizing it up. “If you know anything about Gatsby, you know he’s been in the hospital for a week now. And, well… they all drop off like flies, sooner or later, especially a wanted man like him.”

Fury began to bubble in me as I listened to his words. “What exactly does that mean?” I demanded to know.

“You know.” He smirked a filthy smirk that corroborated with his seedy nature. I did _ not _ know, and his skating around the matter like it was the norm infuriated me further. He elaborated: “When they’re gone, someone has to pick up their affairs and take care of them. A big ol’ place like this, left to the dust? What use would that be to anyone else?”

Words, again, escaped me. I had realised that these men were here for one sole purpose, and that purpose was not to preserve Gatsby’s mansion in his absence - they were here to strip the place clean. They were here to take all of Gatsby’s valuables and either keep them for themselves or sell the objects on to eager buyers, people who had more money than knowledge of what to do with the currency. Gatsby wasn’t dead yet, and these men were already descending on the mansion like they were hungry vultures and it their feast of a corps.

For a moment, I quaked with a silent rage. The injustice of it all. The greed of these people. It was a horrid world, I thought in that moment. In my mind I could see Gatsby lying on a nondescript hospital bed, defenseless to the outside world, and from inside me flung a supernova of indignation.

“Get out.” I spoke those words with a quiet warning hidden between the space.

“Excuse me?”

How ridiculous. How  _ inconceivably  _ ridiculous. First, they all troop into Gatsby’s home like it was their own stamping ground, treat his earned belongings like they were theirs now, and he has the gall, the nerve, the  _ audacity _ to act incredulous when I tell them to leave?!

“You heard me,” my voice raised considerably, and I wrestled the decor from the vulture’s covetous hands. It did not belong to him. Onlookers from the predatory gaggle turned to look at the commotion. I fixed them with the same contemptuous, irate expression that I felt innerly. “ _ Get out of here! _ ”

They flinched at my shout, and some shuffled, but some did not bother to move at all. 

“ _ It’s not your business! _ ” Bellowing at them, I moved towards them in a hasty manner. I ushered them out with the decor still in my hand as if it was a threat, a warning, that this object could be used as a weapon, but that was no more than my subconscious. “ _ Leave! Get out! _ ”

I was in a flurry of fury the time I got them down the staircase, the entire wake congregating in the entry hall having heard my screams. They hollered at me, making  _ me  _ out to be the nonsensical one, as I herded them out the front door.

“ _ Get the hell out of here! _ ” My body shook with my harsh words and movements; my arm felt about ready to tear away from its home socket from how hard I gestured for them to leave and  _ never come back _ .

“Remember!” called the man who I approached first. “They all drop off like flies sooner or later.”

It was a threat that Gatsby would get what was ‘coming to him’; I slammed the main door with vehement as a warning back to him and the chandelier overhead shook with the force, glass pendants colliding in high-pitched  _ clicks _ . Racing into a room just next over and finding a bay window, I kneeled on the cushions. Holding back a heavy curtain, I watched each piece of scum peel itself away from Gatsby’s drive and retreat into the distance.

I stayed at that window for a while, even after everyone had left. My body, exhausted with fatigue and anger, collapsed in on itself, and for once I had no trouble in being allowed rest.

 

&

 

When I awoke the sky was a dark orange as the day burned slowly into night, so I could assume that I was asleep for at least a good several hours.

The house that was once so alive with riotous crowds and a cacophony of colours, lights, and personalities was now empty, dark, and lonesome. As I moved myself off of the seating I had slumped onto, I thought briefly about wondering about the large residence - but soon decided against it, and headed out the back of Gatsby’s house to his dock.

For all I knew, until I was aware of his fate, I could be wandering around an abandoned mausoleum.

 

&

 

I was sat, reading, in my living room the next day. 

Reading is what I wanted to call it. Instead, my eyes processed no more than a few words before I stared meaninglessly at seemingly endless print on pieces of bound paper.

How much longer would it be?

I wish I had someone physical to reach out to so I could ask that question. By this point, I would have called Gatsby at wherever he was staying, would have visited him - however, this wasn’t in my power (and, oh, how I  _ wish _ I had the power of an indefinite amount of beings), because I had no clue where he had been whisked off to. 

Inside and out, I felt completely alone.

Was this how lovesick women felt about their men when the Great War happened? When the ones they felt strongly for disappeared did they, too, feel the emptiness in their chests like a hole? Did they wait anxiously by the telephone, the high-pitched sound they once used to be annoyed by having become the only noise they wanted to hear any more? Did everything they find interesting become nothing more than a chore and something to struggle through while they  _ waited _ ?

Chest stuttering with the tiring difficulty of breathing, I closed my book as my eyes welled with tears. The lately frequent lonely moments often resulted like this, with me feeling pitiful and often pessimistic. Each time, though, I had an inkling of hope still in me; the inkling of hope was, like I have said, an extension of Gatsby. This time… I felt it dying out. My brain and heart were having a torrid war, and my brain was appearing to be the one arising the victor in the bloody finale.

I set my book aside. I hunched myself over, head in my hands, tears skimming my palms. My face quickly became clammy and I wiped my hands on my slacks; that did not stop the tears from coming, though. Furled hand to my mouth in thought, I cried silently like I was trying to conceal my pain; the truth of the matter was that I believed, in that moment, like I didn’t deserve to cry. There was a part of me that believed that I was guilty for Gatsby being shot and it wasn’t fair that I lived on, completely competent, while his state of being was looking slim.

If I had not left Gatsby to go to work, perhaps I could have been the one to take the bullet for him - or, maybe, if I had not called Gatsby when I did, his body would not have become the easy target for George Wilson’s steadfast bullet. If I had just done  _ nothing  _ that I did do, there was the chance that none of this would have happened. If I had done it all right, Gatsby wouldn’t have -

The phone began to ring.

My bated breath stopped, though my lungs gave a couple more quick gasps so my body could catch up. Now it was my heart’s turn to run wild. All at once, my line of hope picked back up and my body acted faster than it had in some time. I moved to pick up the telephone.

“Hello?” Voice quivering, I dared not to clear it unless I missed a sound.

“Is that you, old sport?”

I am willing to bet as intensely as a conman with you that no emotion could have matched my state of both disbelief and euphoria the moment I heard Jay Gatsby’s voice.

“Gatsby?” I asked, just to be sure that I was not dreaming.

“Yes, it’s me,” replied Gatsby; his tone was as if I could  _ hear  _ his smile.

“You - you’re -  _ you’re alive _ .” I was saying this to particularly nobody but myself, as if the verbal utterance helped me process the information.

“Yes.” Gatsby answered, audible smile remaining. “And I should -  _ hah _ -” he hissed in pain.

“I-Is everything alright?!” I panicked.

“Everything’s quite alright, old sport, it’s just that - would you mind me giving you the details?”

I was about ready to eat up every word he spoke.

“Not at all.” I shook my head even though he could not see me.

“Well,” began Gatsby, “the bullet hit me in my shoulder, and… to tell the truth, it has broken part of the back of my shoulder and my clavicle. So I…” he trailed off, “I guess I shouldn't have started with the bad news,” he mumbled.

“No, no, no, it's okay.” I rushed to comfort him. “I - You're okay, and that's what is important to me.”

“Oh.” Gatsby said, sounding surprised. Why? “I - I suppose it is. Well, so, that's how the bullet injured me. However, they told me I was quite lucky, extremely lucky, you see - the bullet was… how do I say this without sounding too positive…”

I could not help the delighted little chuckle that escaped me; moments ago, I was willing to start reconciling with the idea that Gatsby may be dead, but here he is, talking on the telephone with me, bumbling over his words.

“What happened was that the bullet passed through completely, so they didn't have to… root around in my body, so to speak, for any pieces of shrapnel.” Gatsby explained. “The nurse said that would have been a very difficult surgery… and I might not have made it out of operating room alive.

“But that isn't the case,” Gatsby said with relief; I felt that emotion alongside him. “Old sport, I believe they are allowing me to leave tomorrow.”

“T-tomorrow?” I could not hide the excitement in my voice. Gatsby chuckled on his end, and I cleared my throat in embarrassment. “You'll be back tomorrow?”

“Quite right.” Gatsby said. “Not quite spic and span, but… I'll get there in good time.”

“Assuredly,” I agreed. “I - I mean, if you survived a gunshot, I'm sure you can survive after and much more.”

“In all honesty… It feels like I already have. And I don't mean just the Great War.”

I do not blame him for feeling like that for an instant. Lending out my best sympathy to him, all I said was: “I understand.”

He exhaled a small laugh (the kind when you are both trying to express your sentiment and shrug off the seriousness of your nature) and how I wished to see that smile on his face. However, unlike all of my other weak moments of yearning this past week and a part, this time I  _ knew _ I would be seeing him soon, and so my infatuation did not give me a feeling of bittersweetness. Instead, it revived me with it's inspiring and astounding recovery.

For now, I decided not to press him about the past or the future - especially not the troubling aspects. The key, important thing was that Jay Gatsby was alive and I had just discovered this wonderful news. Unless he brought up any pressing matter, I would not push him. For him (and perhaps partly for myself) I would only allow the moment's events.

We were lost in silence momentarily, but that was perfectly okay with me. Gatsby's presence alone at the other end of the line brought me inner peace and serenity.

Suddenly, Gatsby's voice made the phone crackle. “...Nick?”

“Yes?”

“I'm… glad that you entered my life when you did. I'm grateful that you are in my life, is what I'm saying.” Gatsby said sincerely. “Thank you for being there for me, Nick.”

My heart would not deny his meaningful words or his double usage of my first name, and so it swooned - as did I.

“Me too, Jay.” His name felt strange on my tongue, but it _ did  _ feel more… soft, and regular. We had surpassed the last-name-basis aspect between us now, which made me feel strangely giddy. “I’m glad you're in my life too. You're a great person.”

A pause, and I had worried I had overstepped a boundary. But then - “You don't know how lovely it is to hear that.” He admitted quietly.

I believed I did - but I didn't interrupt his sentiment. Instead, I smiled and let him speak to his heart's desire. He deserved all of that and more.

 

&

 

Begrudgingly, I awoke for work the next day. In all truth, I wanted to mill around home, waiting for Jay's return so I could readily greet him. However, work was calling and I could not afford to have the time off. 

There was the chance he would get home after me, anyways.

That morning, I looked in the mirror and steadied my right hand on my shaving razor for the first time in a while; I had the motivation to do this ritual now because I felt like I really had a  _ reason _ to look forward to what was ahead of me and present myself neatly. My facial hair was steadily growing, and admittedly… I was looking unkempt.

When I walked into work, I must have been noticeably more chipper than usual; a coworker who was handling a phone call on the table next to me gave me a look and said, “Glad to see you’re looking like yourself again, Carraway.”

I nodded to him, not wanting to interrupt his business call any further, and sat down at my desk. I went along with my day much more smoother than usual, much more calm and patient than I had been these past couple of days. Though I felt like racing through everything as if it would bring me closer to seeing Jay, it was unlike when I had been racing through everything as if it was going to keep him alive. Then, there was that pessimistic outlook and grim possibility; now, he was coming home, and I  _ was  _ going to see him again. There was nothing to fight  _ against _ this time.

All the way home, I ignored the curious rumble of my car’s engine in favour of looking at - and contemplating - the world around me. New York was not suddenly sparkling and brand spanking new now that I had found out Gatsby had survived this whole ordeal, but I saw the world differently now that I knew that fact. 

It occured to me, for the second time over this fortnight, that Jay meant to me a great deal more than I thought beforehand. The fact that the state of his well-being completely altered my emotions and world view proved to me this one thing: he was integral to my well-being, and I wasn’t sure I could do without him. This is why I was disappointed when I arrived at Jay’s home to find that he had still not returned from the hospital.

Nonetheless, he had said they  _ might  _ be letting him home today so I, slightly downtrodden, retreated back to my house to fetch myself something to eat.

 

&

 

I watched the green light pulsate rhymically from across the bay, stood in no other place than Gatsby’s dock. The emerald rays caught against the waves that turned an almost obsidian-blue due to the dark hour.

Earlier, I realised that I could not do without Jay. That was true. Indisputably. As I surveyed that beacon of hope, my brain added on something to that train of thought: ‘ _ ever again _ ’. I could never go through this emotional toll again. If I were to lose him or fear for his life and have him nowhere in sight again (God forbid that he may actually pass), then this instance of my emotions plummeting may merely be a  _ hint _ of what could come. The thought of such loss made my heart ache and brought tears to my eyes. 

I laughed quietly to myself, tipping my head back a little so they wouldn’t fall. Why was I tearful? This was a time of happiness, not a time for me to concern myself with thoughts that may never even come to fruition. 

“The sun isn’t rising any time soon, you know.”

I could not whip my head around faster, nor could my heart beat more monumentally, when I saw Jay Gatsby, in the flesh, standing at the ground end of the dock.

“Jay - !” I exclaimed, giving little time before rushing towards him. The dock creaked under my fast feet and, as I grew closer, I saw his left arm held in a sling.

“Careful of the arm,” he warned, but with a smile.

I made sure to be precarious when leaning in and gave him a half-hug to his right side, which he returned. I had my arm over Jay's shoulder and his right arm, due to its limited mobility, had slung around my waist to hold my body by its width. His fingers held my waist in a way that felt strangely intimate; they tightened and his thumb moved lightly as if to reassure me. My button-up that I was wearing was thin enough that I could feel the warmth of his hand and I couldn't help but feel thrilled and nervous at the same time.

“It's good to see you again, old sport,” he said quietly but happily.

I smiled, the sentiment warming me like his touch. “It's good to see you too, Jay.” However, pulling away though keeping my hand on his shoulder, I raised an eyebrow and I teased, mock-incredulously, “And here I thought you had finally learned my name.”

He chuckled sheepishly, hanging his head. “I'm sorry,” he smiles. “Habits do die hard.” He looked up and his eyes bore into me with sincerity.

I swallowed, finding something to say in the prolonged eye contact. “It happens to the best of us,” I sympathised, giving his shoulder a pat before lowering my hand. Beginning to walk past him, I thought we might retire to his house to talk, but he stopped me with his right hand gracefully grabbing my forearm. 

“It's such a beautiful night.” He said. I stopped and looked at him, and his eyes were looking right ahead. “Why don't we stay here for a while?”

“Oh.” I was surprised; I would have expected that he’d like to sit inside. I’d light the fire for him, make him some tea, help him get ready for a night’s rest similar to the nurses who took care of him in the hospital. I’d like to greet him back into his comfy home, letting him know he was away from that cold, monochrome hospital atmosphere. He didn’t want that, though. He wanted to stay outside.

I decided not to question him. Instead, I let my eyebrows fall from the way my forehead held them, raised. “Okay.” I said, albeit still left with some confusion.

I turned around and walked by his side as we slowly wandered down the dock. As we reached half-way, I nervously tacked on: “You shouldn’t stay outside for too long. Who - who knows how your injury could be affected.”

The slightest bit ahead of me, Jay turned his head to look at me. His eyes were trying to imitate a cheeky glint, but I could sense something untruthful in the way he did this. Trying to display some sort of playfulness, the act tugged at the edges of those lips that my eyes tried not to linger too long on. “Wasn’t it you who said that I could survive this and much more?”

Recounting my words from our phone call, I laughed sheepishly at my nervous nature. I hung my head a little, though not wholly. “You’re right. My apologies.”

“Now.” Jay admonished. “No need for apologies. Like I said,” he looked back out to the water, “it’s a lovely night. Let’s enjoy ourselves for now.”

We came to the edge of the upper part of the dock, rail separating us from the beyond. In close proximity, our shoulders almost touched. It made me on edge, conscious of my movements, but I couldn’t honestly say that I would rather be meters away. 

There was no talk between us, and all that could be heard was the airy wash of the night’s breeze and the waves that were pushed along with it. I looked up to Jay to see his eyes lingering on the same green light he’d fantasised about all summer and felt a pit in my stomach. He didn’t know about the Buchanans’ shallow departure from their colonial home across the bay.

I knew that I had to tell him.

“They packed up, Jay.” I said right away. It was peculiar; I had no reluctance to do so, because I had no interest in helping him prolong and continue entertaining his fantasy that almost got him killed. However, I didn’t want to make him upset. These things must be done, though, and if I believed I loved Jay and could never do without him again, I had to do this. “They moved out barely a day after you went into the hospital.

“I tried calling them so many times.” Bitterness could not be hidden from my tone, no matter how ugly it may have sounded. “Neither of them picked up. The butler stopped picking up after so many times.”

He made a sound that was something of a cold chuckle. I looked to him, and he had looked down, shaking his head. His face faded to something expressionless, and I did not know how to read him in that moment.

“I’m sorry.” Was all I could find to say.

“It’s - it’s quite alright.” He said. His voice was not choked, but it denoted emotion in some way. The way he spoke, it was like he was trying to push away his negative feelings. “I… as you could imagine, I thought about her - this situation - while I was stuck in hospital. I  _ have _ started to come to terms that…” he breathed, and the air he took in rattled, “... the feelings I fostered for her in our meetings five years ago aren’t the same feelings I thought I went through when I went on my mission to… ‘win her back’.” Again, he laughed bittersweetly. “I…” he huffed. “I’m still… still stuck in this rut, I suppose. That rut of fantasising about her. Even though I  _ know _ \- I realise now - that she’s unattainable and always has been.

“Every time -  _ every time _ \- she was happy with something of mine… It was never enough. Nick,” he looked at me when he said my name, “I sat in that hospital bed and I  _ thought  _ about every time she found joy in the things I’d gained for her satisfaction. This location, the parties, the clothes, all the materials… Just when I thought I  _ had  _ her, I didn’t. I didn’t even have the image of her that I’d procured for my own pleasure over the years. All I had was a married woman - with a  _ child  _ \- in my arms who wanted to run away from everything, but I thought that  _ at least I had that green light _ .” He gestured to the glowing rays in front of us.

“I almost  _ died _ for this, and it  _ terrifies  _ me. I could have become one of those people I got caught up in this mess - that  _ poor  _ Wilson lady,” he continued, and I saw his outstretched hand curl into itself slightly in cohesion with the straining of his emotions, “and her husband who tried to kill me who did himself in. For this fantasy, for that vision that now I know won’t ever come true, I got people killed and almost did myself.” His hand curled right into a frustrated fist. “It’s all been for  _ nothing _ , but it’s cost so many people  _ so much _ .” He dropped his hand to the metal pole, looking down, and I saw his skin stretched taut around the bony curve of his knuckles. 

I couldn’t correct him. What he said was true to some extent, even the parts that displayed him in a bad light. He hadn’t realised it entirely at the time, but for the past five years Jay had been working out of his own blind self-interest. He was painfully aware now, though, that his ultimate goal of filling the fantasy that, having given himself extensive time to dream about, was simply unachieveable. 

Though it was not entirely by his own hand, it is agreeable that if he had realised this unreachable goal sooner, losses would have been lesser. However... 

“You didn’t force anybody’s hand in these deaths, though.” I told him, standing sideways to face him with one hand on the rail. “People make their own decisions to do bad.” I struggled with my words, trying to keep a healthy balance of holding him accountable and not blaming him for the things he cannot control. “You’re not  _ evil _ .”

He laughed hollowly, that same laugh I heard on the telephone; it was the laugh you make when you’re not truly happy; that laugh when you don’t believe what the other person is telling you. “Perhaps I’ll believe it in time.”

Taking in his words, I realised that he felt the same survivors guilt that I had been feeling at the beginning of this all. I empathised with him all too well.

“I -” He began, lifting a hand up and making a small gesture, “I don’t mean to minimise your efforts to make me feel better. I can understand it’s not easy trying to…” he looked up, and then in my direction, but avoiding my eyes, “... stick by someone like me.” 

Unspoken words referred to his arduous past, murky present, and unclear future. They referred to his lavish lifestyle that came with more risks than one could count on all of their fingers; they referred to his inner workings, the way his mind processed events and his own thoughts and how it had managed to lead to these happenings. They alluded to the rumors from the public and uncertainty from within that was hovering, waiting to pounce, in the near future.

His eyes finally met mine, though, and I found myself thinking again that I simply didn’t care. The doubt, the rumors, the tragedy were a bad twisting of the stomach and my optimism and wishfulness were the butterflies beating it down with precise swings. 

His hand landed back down on the railing and I couldn’t help but realise that our hands were a mere distance away. I swallowed, flustered, looking back up at him. 

Tortured eyes looked back at me, and I had a deep will to make them sparkle with delight once more.

Honesty overwhelmed me. “I would stick by you through everything, over and over.”

I think that if Jay had any more fight left in him, he would have kept trying to dispute with me about his honour and deserving of a second chance. It would have been within the realm of possibilities for him to pick up the suave character he’d curated for a long time, but even  _ then  _ it would have been  a far reach. However, he was weary. Everything about him hollered of how tired he was. Right now, he needed somebody to fall back on, and I was waiting for him with my open arms.

“Thank you.” He murmured, smiling minutely and looking back down to the black bay crashing against the dock.

Knowing that he had fallen to silence for now, I turned my body back to face outwards at the open body of water in front of us so I was not pressuring him with my focused presence. Both hands back on the railing, I knew we were in for a long night. 

We were in for an even more vast future, but as long as we beat on ceaselessly, our boat’s tough oars against the current that shook these waters, I was certain we would stay together come what may. 

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you guys enjoyed reading this! constructive criticism is accepted and appreciated :)
> 
> you can find me at: rosygatsby.tumblr.com


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